


A Feeling We Don't Know Yet

by ladyflowdi



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drama, First Time, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-27
Updated: 2008-12-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/ladyflowdi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they end up in bed together, Arthur is crawling towards death with his fingers raked into the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Feeling We Don't Know Yet

The first time they end up in bed together, Arthur is crawling towards death with his fingers raked into the ground. The poison in his veins is doing what countless others have been unable to do – slowly, methodically stripping Arthur’s will to live away as if it never existed, as if Arthur were anything other than the strong willed, stubborn bastard Merlin knows him to be.

His room smells of sickness and pain and encroaching death, but Merlin stays. He stays, and wipes Arthur’s brow, and bathes his aching, shivering body, and rubs his skin gone cold as ice. And when that isn’t enough, when that isn’t nearly enough, Merlin crawls into Arthur’s bed and lies with his prince, sadness filling his heart so full that it has no option but to come up his throat and out of his eyes.

The first time they’re in bed together, Merlin feels fear, because no one, not even Nimueh, could possibly bring Arthur back from the brink he stands on. 

 

The second time they end up in bed together, Arthur says, “Stay.”

It’s evening time, supper come and gone, a heavy stew in his belly and his warmest coat on his shoulders. Winter has set in with a vengeance, and Merlin’s arms ache from the tapestries he’s spent the last few weeks hanging, the furs and carpets he’s hauled and unrolled and beaten, the heavy velvet bed drapes Uther demanded be put up in Arthur’s room. Arthur, though he is recovering well enough, still walks around carefully, still tires easily, still goes pale and waxy and shaky when he thinks no one is looking. It’s a good thing Merlin’s always looking, then, because he’s close enough to catch Arthur when he stands from the fireside, snaps, “I told you, I’m fine,” and swoons, eyes rolling up with skin gone white. Merlin grabs for him and holds him steady and doesn’t think about the bones he can feel under his hands. “If you flutter at me and offer a token of your esteem, I’m out of here,” he says, and leads Arthur to his bed. 

Arthur glares gratifyingly, though, a healthy spark of life in his otherwise pale face, and Merlin sets about removing the warming plates from between the blankets and Arthur’s slippers from his feet. “One of these days I’m going to trade you for a mule,” Arthur says as Merlin helps him swing his feet up into his toasty bed, and groans halfway through with the pleasure of it. 

Merlin covers him up carefully, doesn’t at all watch his face as Arthur relaxes, the pain not as obvious today as it was yesterday on his drawn face. He turns to pull the drapes closed and Arthur catches his wrist, sleepy blue eyes open to a narrow slit. “I meant it. Stay.”

“I’d do anything for you, Arthur, but I draw the line at sleeping on freezing stone.”

“Not on the _floor_ , you idiot, in _bed_ ,” Arthur says, shaking his head and staring at him as if Merlin’s a few coins short of admission price. When Merlin just stares back he snaps his fingers. “Any time today.”

The second time they’re in bed together Merlin is so close to Arthur he can feel the heat of his body, hear the almost inaudible snores, whispery sighs he always denies making, blessedly alive and none the wiser on how he came to be that way, how he was cured of a poison with no cure, how he was still breathing.

Merlin wakes up in the middle of the night, nightmares chasing themselves in his mind, and crawls out of the warm cocoon of Arthur’s bed to be sick in the chamber pot. 

 

The third time they end up in bed together, it’s because Arthur is convinced someone’s going to come out of the woodwork and steal Merlin away, as if Merlin matters much at all to anyone.

Mercia is six days ride from Camelot, not very far in the scheme of things, but far enough that Merlin wishes they didn’t have to go. Uther waited until Arthur had reclaimed whatever stubborn bullheadedness his brush with the questing beast had taken, waited until there was pink in his cheeks again and his sword swung easily in his hand, and then they were off to Mercia to meet with King Bayard over a peace agreement.

Even though Merlin knows King Bayard isn’t a bad person, and even though he knows it wasn’t the king who poisoned him, and by default attempted to murder Arthur, he still makes Merlin uncomfortable. He can’t help it, this paranoia by association, and Arthur, it seems, shares the sentiment. He keeps Merlin in his line of sight at all times, through the long ride, through a tour of the grounds, through supper and the entertainment, a wonderful reenactment of Beowulf, Merlin’s favorite story. It’s almost insulting to be kept on such a short leash – almost. Not that Merlin would ever admit to it making him feel better.

The room King Bayard gave them is nice enough (though, Merlin thinks smugly, not as nice as Camelot), warm and functional, with a big fire place that Merlin immediately sets to lighting. Arthur, sleepy and full, sits on the bench at the foot of the bed, unlaces the fancy coat Uther had made him wear, unbuttons with clumsy, mead-warmed fingers. 

Arthur is quiet, a dark shadow in the corner of his vision. He’s watching, his eyes burning into Merlin’s back, his shoulders, his neck, and Merlin is nervous under them in a way he’s never been. He can’t help shifting under the gaze, waiting until the logs catch and start to burn before turning around and clapping his hands together. “There we are, it should warm up in here soon enough. You’d think King Bayard would have had someone come do it – shows a real slight in service, you know.”

“I asked him to keep his servants out of my rooms.” 

Unexpected, but not all together surprising. “About that,” Merlin says, pretending like Arthur isn’t staring at him in that peculiar way of his, as if he’s doing his best to puzzle something out. “We’re here for the next fortnight.”

“Merlin, if this is about dinner, then shut it,” Arthur announces, annoyed – but at least when he’s annoyed he isn’t being his particular brand of thoughtful, which always makes Merlin nervous. “You aren’t touching a plate or goblet for the duration of our stay.”

Merlin’s belly chooses that moment to rumble loudly, what with all this talk about food. He’s gone without for longer than that, true enough – couldn’t have been the son of a farmer and not experienced hard times – but right now those hard times seemed very far away indeed, suffered because there wasn’t a choice. 

Merlin hasn’t gone hungry in far too long and he dislikes the way it makes him feel, the anger and frustration it brings all too readily to the surface. “Contrary to popular belief, we lowly stewards aren’t actually super human. I will die of starvation if I don’t eat for two weeks, your Pratliness.”

“You aren’t going to starve,” Arthur says with a roll of his eyes, his leather creaking as he stands. “And sit down, won’t you? You know I hate it when you hover.”

Camelot knights are at the door, where Arthur had posted them just a few short hours ago – it had seemed silly at the time, but now Merlin can’t help but be touched at the extreme care Arthur is pretending he isn’t taking with Merlin’s life as well as his own. “I’m a bit peckish, boys,” Arthur says cheerfully. “Run down to the kitchen, won’t you? Whatever sounds good to you is fine with me.”

“Arthur, what are you—”

“Merlin, you’re my manservant. As such, I expect you to at least _pretend_ to mind me. Now sit down.”

Merlin is fairly suspicious about what point it is Arthur is trying to make, but he sits in one of the chairs beside the large fireplace, the furs musty and thick from having been in storage too long without a proper cleaning. It makes him wince a bit, but if Arthur knows what he’s thinking he doesn’t let on.

The knights come back not five minutes later with a tray of meats and breads, a pitcher of mead, and the sweet cakes from dinner. Arthur excuses them with a nod and thanks, and then sits across from Merlin at the table, his back to the firelight. It glows gold all around him, caught in the blond of his hair like a halo.

“I know this is an irrational fear. I know it has no basis in reality. I know it was that witch that tried to poison me, and not King Bayard, but a part of me can’t help but be suspicious. It’s a trait I fear I got from my father. In so saying, for the rest of our time here you will eat here with me.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, even though he’s glad, down to the pit of his belly, “don’t you think that’s a bit paranoid?”

“It’s a lot paranoid, and I don’t care.”

“You’re worried for me,” Merlin can’t help but tease. “You like me.”

“It would take too long to train another manservant, though heaven knows you’re rubbish,” Arthur says with a sniff, and pushes the tray across the table. Their fingers brush. “Eat. I don’t want to hear your stomach growl all night.”

Arthur leans back, obviously pleased with himself, so Merlin listens for once and eats. It’s good – thick, crusty bread, heavy, well-cooked meats, and suddenly he’s ravenous, hunger from the day and cold memories of that farm house in the Camelot countryside. Arthur, at least, does him the courtesy of not watching him, sharpening his favorite knife cheerfully like the unmannered pig he sometimes is until Merlin is finally warm and full.

“Thank you,” he says, his heart almost breaking at the pleasure that flashes across Arthur’s face, there and gone again under the arrogant tilt of his chin. “Though it really isn’t necessary, I’m fine eating with the other servants.”

“Humor me, Merlin,” Arthur says, standing and carefully unwinding his belt to set it aside on the table, where his crown already sits.

“I always humor you, Arthur. In fact, it can be said I laugh at you all the time,” he says, smiling when Arthur looks over his shoulder to glare. 

“I don’t like it here. I don’t like King Bayard, and I really don’t like his knights, and I really, _really_ don’t like that we’re six days ride from Camelot and Morgana, who isn’t well known for being calm and _female_ and will likely head a revolution before the week is over.” Arthur tugs his shirt over his head.

“I can’t speak for Morgana, because I think you’re right, but there’s nothing to fear from King Bayard, aside from the usual border politics.”

“It _was_ his chalice that poisoned you, and by default almost poisoned _me_ , and we all know I’m much more important,” Arthur says, and suddenly smirks. “Though you know, getting poisoned had its perks. Presents, girls fawning over you, staying in bed until all hours.” He chuckled suddenly, eyes bright. “If it wasn’t for the debilitating fever, I’d have milked it for all it was worth.”

Merlin doesn’t know what it is, the words maybe, or the tone, but the memories rush forward, ugly and painful. It hits him, suddenly, that not a month ago Arthur’s knights had gathered in the courtyard outside his window, grown men weeping for their dying prince; not a month ago Merlin had laid in Arthur’s bed, staring across the expanse of pillow as Arthur gasped for air that wouldn’t come, fading in heartbeats. Not a month ago, Merlin almost gave his life for Arthur. Not a month ago, so had his mother. 

And suddenly, suddenly it’s just all a bit too much, and he’s so angry it’s almost overflowing. He slams a fist into the table so hard the dishware shakes, so hard the arrogance startles right off of Arthur’s face. “You almost died, you great arse!” Merlin yells, and he’s perfectly aware that this is his inevitable breakdown, that he is going to lose it in front of Arthur and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it. 

He stumbles to standing, knowing Arthur’s face is clouding with disbelief and that they’re about to have the row to end all rows, except Merlin is shaking with this great well of emotion that’s been waiting to come free. “And you, you don’t see that when your knights try to carry your weapons for you, or Gwen makes sure you’ve got extra warm clothes, or, or when I prepare your saddle for you even though I know you hate it and would rather do it yourself. No, it’s all about your pride, isn’t it! It's because we care for you! But you just see us treating you like a baby!” 

Arthur looks dumbfounded and, to Merlin’s annoyance, more than a little alarmed. He reaches out to grasp his elbow but Merlin jerks it away, pointing a furious finger at him. “You just had to go and get yourself poisoned! Couldn’t duck out of the way, could you? Couldn’t run like any normal being, ah? No, of course not, you’re Arthur, future King of Camelot! No running for you, wouldn’t look _seemly_ to preserve your life, even though you’re crowned prince and last time I looked, there was only one of you!”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, in that tone of voice he uses to calm skittish animals and fear-struck villagers and apparently Merlin. “It’s alright.”

“It isn’t!” Merlin yells, and yanks at his hair, and has the sudden, almost desperate need to slug Arthur square in his stupid face. “You’re supposed to save us!” 

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Arthur says, but Merlin cuts him off, so angry now he squeezes his hands into fists to keep from turning and really landing one on him. “No, you aren’t! No matter what I do you just jump in, neck on the chopping block! What’s going to happen when the day comes that I can’t get there in time you? What’s going to happen to all of this, to Camelot, to me?” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur says, and this time when he reaches out Merlin lets him clasp his shoulder tightly, squeeze his arm. “Look at me.” Except Merlin can’t, he can’t, and Arthur says, “Merlin, _look at me_.”

Arthur’s eyes are wide and stunned and heartbreakingly sad. He squeezes the back of Merlin’s neck, gives him a little shake. “It’s alright. I’m here now, aren’t I? Safe and whole. You did save me.”

“But what if I don’t,” Merlin says, and doesn’t care at all that it sounds like a sob. “What if the day comes that I can’t, that I don’t get there in time?”

“We can’t live life like that, always wondering if we’ll be quick enough, or strong enough.” Arthur brushes the hair from Merlin’s forehead. “You’ve got to trust that I can look after myself.” 

“Oh, yes, just like the last four times, you unbelievable git,” Merlin says, and scrapes his wrist across his wet face. “Jumping in where mortals fear to tread with your stupid sword and your stupid smile. Honestly, it’s a wonder you’ve still got all your functioning limbs.”

Arthur grins, though. “It was a bit too soon to make jokes about almost dying, I see that now. I’ve never been known for my good taste. Or my sense of timing, now that I think about it.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“No need to agree with me. And so quickly, too,” Arthur says, and cuffs him almost gently on the back of the head. “Turn the bed down.”

“Sire—”

“Oh, it’s _sire_ now,” Arthur says with a roll of his eyes, and none-too-gently shoves him towards the bed. “I’m going to go have a quick wash, and _you_ are staying here with me tonight, no arguments.” 

Arthur turns and ducks under his crown turning slowly in midair, past the dishes holding their own symphony in the center of the table (with the fork as conductor), around the drapes dancing with Arthur’s dinner jacket, and over his boots engaged in some fancy footwork. He even manages to just barely catch the candlestick that falls off the mantel when it tries to do a cartwheel and misjudges the distance. 

Merlin swallows, a hard, dry click, because the pillows are having a fight behind him, and the books Arthur brought are flying overhead, and the carpet has decided it doesn’t want to be under the table anymore and is doing its best to wriggle out from under it. 

The sword and the fire iron are having a mock battle in the corner.

Arthur glances back, grins. “I always knew I had a guardian angel,” he says, plucking his socks out of thin air as they do their best to cut in on the dinner jacket’s waltz. “Though why I couldn’t have a prettier one than you, I’ll never know.”


End file.
